The hailstones melted quickly as they'd come, eager to escape responsibility for whatever had been belted or broken. I was sad to see them go, as now there was just concrete, decay, and another jumbled mass of vehicles ahead of me. A truck trailer had fishtailed across several lanes, probably one of the many deliveries made to the bunker under the DC – Firebase One. I took a minute to rest in its shade, sitting on the concrete divider that separated Interstate-5. The sun was back and always seemed worse after a hailstorm.

My head felt cold where the hailstone had hit it. That probably wasn't good. My legs felt anything but.

There were no families among the cars, as I guessed they'd either headed back to one of the compounds or sought help at the DC. The Sylmar compound was off to my left somewhere, but thankfully a high wall that side of I-5 blocked it from view. I was really missing the helicopters now. Without them; the cars; the trucks; or the hum-vees; there was a painful sense of expectation, and I felt like yelling just to try and pierce it.

I thought of how many times I'd prayed for quiet in my life, and managed to smile.

Don't think yourself to pieces.

My mom had told me as much whenever I lost myself in idle, or panicked contemplation of the great mysteries of life. The older I got, the more I realized it was good advice. Take smoke breaks with the imponderables but don't move in with them.

It was then that I did hear something. The trudge of boots. Too ordered and uniform to be anything other than USPF. I stood up, dusted myself off, and rounded the trailer with my hands raised. About fifty assault rifles snapped up to cover me, from USPF troops scattered across both lanes of the I-5. I held my breath as one stepped forward.

'Identification,' he snapped, voice muffled by his helmet.

I was so used to that request that being scared shitless didn't even matter. Muscle memory kicked in and I smoothly lifted the ID badges out of my pocket.

He snatched them off me to study. Difficult to tell what was going on under that visor, but a minute later he called out: 'Lieutenant!'

A man wearing dark grey combat armor emerged from between the cars, almost identical to a standard grunt unless you knew what to look for. That much was intentional, as the USPF was one of the very few generously funded arms of the government and officers could earn good money. Command didn't want them taken as hostages for a payout, or targeted out of sheer spite. There were a lot of desperate people out there.

Plus, ever since President Johnson took over, brain drain was a problem, and it was getting increasingly difficult to find anyone fit to be a superior officer in the USPF. If they could, I bet they would've just lowered the entry requirements. Unfortunately, a crime-rate in excess of 500%, and that was just the official figure, actually needed capable commanders.

The Lieutenant took one look at me and signaled the others to lower their weapons. He flipped between my IDs.

'Mr...Davis. Network Technician. Where you headed?'

'Work' I said.

That tinted visor stared, waiting for the punchline. 'Fuck do we need with a Network Technician?'

'I'm also good with electronics,' I replied feebly.

There was a long silence before he spoke again: 'Son. I'm going to remove my helmet, simply so you can appreciate the look on my face.'

He lifted the black dome with a sigh of relief, scratching at sweat soaked hair. The guy was middle-aged and looked like he'd slept two hours in the last two days. 'So is it heatstroke, Davis, or do you really not know what an EMP is?'

'I do,' I said, feeling more confident now. 'Whatever went off two days ago was very impressive, but there'll be exceptions.'

The Lieutenant tilted his face to the sun and closed his eyes. 'The point. Before I beat you to death.'

'Right,' I said quickly. 'Concrete offers some protection to an EMP, but metal is best. Firebase One was built using a shitload of both. The major systems may still be offline, maybe for good, but that place will be full of accidental Faraday cages. Some of the stuff in those'll be useful, and I can help fix it.'

I blew out a breath as I waited for his reaction.

He kept his face turned up, eyes closed. 'I can tell when someone's bullshitting, and what you're pedaling has the whiff of it, but... I'm not gagging either.'

The Lieutenant lowered his head and stared at me. 'Don't suppose you've seen Snake Plissken?'

I wondered if he was joking. 'Uh, no. Came in from Santa Clarita. All I've seen are some families sticking with their cars.'

'Pity. Guess a Network Technician would tell me the truth, too. What with him ruining your livelihood.'

'Mmm,' I said, giving my best fuck you smile.

The Lieutenant turned to the man next to him,'Moving out.'

That order was then blared to the rest of the grunts, who marched past me without a second look. Within minutes, they were just boot-steps fading into the distance.

'Best of luck,' I muttered.

The further I walked, the more USPF I saw. Like a wave rolling between abandoned buildings, they shook steel security screens, checked block locks on roller shutters, and dealt bruised ribs and black eyes to any vagrants, in between asking some questions. I think it dawned on me then that despite the devastating bait and switch Plissken pulled on Johnson, the President still didn't respect him. This particular snake had just slithered for the nearest hole. So search the holes. Johnson was very much a black and white kind of guy. Shades of grey were what the LA and Manhattan islands were for.

It was getting dark by the time I got close to the DC, though time had an elastic quality now. The molten pain of my legs made me feel every moment, yet somehow big chunks were still missing.

I heard the crowd before I saw it, then I was joining a press of bodies, their voices melding into senseless babble. Diving in was like riding a river of elbows. They managed to find every tender spot. I slid from requests to demands to just yelling at the top of my lungs, putting any strength I had left into kneeing, shoving, and forcing my way through. Something blunt and smooth pounded the side of my head, my jaw, my back, then I was crashing into chain-link. There was a weak, muddy orange light the other side of the gate that reminded me of Fagan's lamp. It glinted off an assault rifle, the barrel close enough to poke me in the eye, while a guard yelled at me to step back.

Hanging off the chain-link, I realized I could barely speak and tried to wrestle the ID cards from my pocket. Only my arm had gone numb and I fumbled, losing them in the darkness. With timing so bad it seemed almost divine, it was at that moment that the floodlights exploded into life.

They had power.